Things That Make Me Stabby

e27063982844ada2fc69d512b4c4668eA lot of people wonder why the knife emoji is always in my emoji top 8. In fact, I get a little bummed out when I notice the knife emoji has dipped out of my top 8 (what, you guys don’t have an emoji top 8?).

Having a bad day? Knife emoji.

People suck? Knife emoji.

When your fave Chinese food restaurant refuses to deliver? Knife emoji.

Hell, sometimes I just text my sister the knife emoji and it’s like, “enough said. She’s stabby. Leave it alone.”

Which made me think about all of the things that have made me stabby recently. Because there are OH so many. For starters, writer’s block. FUCK writer’s block, man. Hence why I haven’t posted in over a month. Sigh. Because I had a whole lot of nothin’ goin’ on up in this piece. 

So here I am, feeling stabby, and wanting to share it with the world. 

Oh, and to be clear, I would never ACTUALLY stab someone. Only a little bit in the thigh, IF NECESSARY (kidding … kind of)

1. Unicorn everything: Why. Like I get it for little kids. But there’s something that just makes me incredibly sad to see grown ass adults walking, drinking, eating, and covered in unicorn shit. Right?

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2. Jeans covered in mud for $425: Da fuq? That’s all I have to say about that. 

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3. Coachella and everything Coachella-related: Does anyone else find Coachella fashion nauseating? Cut off short shorts with my with ass cheeks hanging out and crocheted crop tops paired with a unicorn-style flower crown, and enough glitter to make a drag queen jealous just doesn’t get my rocks off. Sorry.  

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4. Anything that comes out of Donald Trump’s mouth: I mean, do I need to elaborate?

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5. Off the shoulder tops: I kind of wanted to one until I realized, A. Sarah Palin rocked one in the White House and immediately all of them needed to be burned and B. wearing one requires a strapless bra, and we all know how I feel about them. Ladies with big taas need to wear a bra, fortunately and unfortunately all at the same time.

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6. Cramps: I’m currently suffering and just want to have an intimate spooning session with my heating pad. 

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8. What Dakota Johnson or any other star looks like without makeup on: Makeup makes everything better. Who doesn’t feel like a million bucks after going into Sephora for eyeliner and walking out with $200 worth of crap you didn’t need? Also bitch was TOTALLY wearing makeup at the Oscars. Give me a break.

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9. Showing your ass while posing in front of beautiful landscapes: According to Facebook, this is a thing? And it makes me want to leave civilization forever.

10. Slow walkers: Yes, I am that asshole walking way to close behind you so you MOVE THE FUCK ALONG. 

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11. People who email me and refer to me as “LifeSucksInAStraplessBra” then hates on my SEO practices and everything else I have going on in the backend of my blog: How hard is it to look at my bio and be like, “oh her name is Kate,” and then say, “Hey Kate, your SEO practices and all of your other web skills suck and you have MAJOR problems.” Also, stop emailing me because I don’t care. 

12. Sweating/sweating through my bra: Murderous rage. I daydream about whipping that thing off the minute I get home. Sick, right? 

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13. In the same breath, humidity: It’s like yay springtime, outside, frothy drinks, and then the oversized, fat and sweaty palm of the humidity monster bitch slaps me across the face. Nope. Solid nope.

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Brunch, A Night Club, & the Faux-dashians

screen-shot-2016-10-17-at-3-13-40-pmI remember when I had a fake ID, going to “da club” was something out of Sex and the City. I thought everything was so chic. I would sit on the velvet couches, sipping my cosmopolitan whilst rocking my boot cut jeans and satin “going out top,” thinking life really couldn’t get much more glamorous than this. 

It’s been 9 years to the date since I’ve retired my fake ID. And rarely does my ass ever step foot into a club because, well…

  • I hate people
  • I really can’t stand trying to have a conversation over blaring heinous techno (Jesus do I sound dusty and decrepit)
  • I loathe douchey dudes who think an Armani Exchange button down gives them the right to grind up all on me. HARD pass. 

But when someone says to you, “hey, want to go to a brunch nightclub,” you nod your head yes, because why wouldn’t you? I feel the need to also express that I was highly intoxicated when I agreed to these plans because I loathe brunch, and see above my thoughts on nightclubs at age 29. But hey, I was visiting one of my closest friends and we were heading into New York City… when in Rome. 

Brunch in Philly, or “Sunday Funday” (by the way, that term makes me want to kick people) from what I understand, is super casual and ends at a normal hour. Again I don’t partake because I fucking hate having to choose between a burger or pancakes. And also I don’t need an excuse to drink during the day, okay? 

Brunch in NYC is, well, a beast. Little did I know I had to batten down the hatches. I walked up to this “brunch nightclub,” also known as Il Bastardo, at 4 p.m. to a bunch of sloppily drunk contoured girls in teeny tiny outfits, chain smoking, crying, and trying to balance on their 4 inch heels and failing miserably. Holy fuck balls … where was I?! 

I was greeted by the loudest music I’ve ever heard in my life, and Kardashian clones stumbling around like drunk slobs carrying bottles of champagne, BOTTLES, with straws hanging out of them. It was 4 p.m. on a Sunday, kids. And people were getting carried out of this place. At 4 p.m. On a Sunday.

After screaming to the hostess five hundred times over the DJ announcing, “WHERE MANHATTAN AT?!?!” “Party for 2 under KATE … KATE! K-A-T-E!” We were seated directly in front of the dance floor, which was glorious, because we had front row seats to this shit show. But mama needed alcohol. It was the only way I was going to survive this insanity.

Immediately two bottles of champagne arrived with no straws and no cups. I swear the waiter looked at me like I had five heads when I asked for a glass to drink my champagne out of. Oh okay … are cups not cool in NYC? I’m confused. 

We ordered food, which felt super out of place, but I noshed on my truffle fries as the faux-dashians selfied themselves to death around me, because … well fries. I know my priorities even when I’m in the twilight zone. 

Once I had sweet alcohol flowing through my veins, I began to dance a little in my seat like a grandma and people watch. Immediately I noticed these absolutely STUNNING women, each with a bottle of Moet Chandon in front of them immersed in their social media world. Like dressed to the nines, each one looking effortlessly stunning than the next.

I resisted the strong urge to ask them what the hell they did for a living besides sit at brunch and take Snapchat videos of themselves lip syncing seductively to the music and flipping their hair (yes, that happened … like they didn’t talk to one another, that is ALL they did).

Everyone looked like they were “someone,” but a large part of me knew they were not, which made it all feel really sad. For example, the lady in the expensive-looking flowing skirt who I witnessed lift her leg up onto the bar and start to twerk … she wasn’t someone. But my god was trying. 

I happened to be on my way to the ladies room when she did this and had the unfortunate timing of seeing a good majority of her vagina. And I’m super sad to report that wasn’t the only unintentional vagina I saw that day. Sigh. 

Like I said, they were all Kardashian clones. Tight ass dresses with long flowing trenches over them. Crop tops with old school Tommy Hilfiger jean jackets over them paired with Adidas shell toes. Long ass t-shirts paired with thigh high boots and Kourtney Kardashian long locks. And it didn’t matter if you were 100 pounds of 500 pounds, you were wearing a crop top. I suppose it is a requirement in the state of NY. 

Me? Well, I wore black ripped skinnies, a lace top with a hint of witch, and a cool set of heels. To which the bouncer at this nightmare told me I looked, “comfortable.” COMFORTABLE. That’s when I almost removed my non-existant hoops, said, “this is considered stylish in Philly, sir!” like a moron, and had to leave.

I’ve never felt more uncool slash uncomfortable in my life. At one point I found myself painting dark matte lipstick on myself and contemplating taking off my camisole underneath my lace top to expose my lame bra and compete with these bitches. I didn’t because I woke up and realized, “self, you don’t live here, this isn’t you, and oh yeah, this doesn’t matter.” 

I still to this day can’t help but wonder, do these people work? Because if I got as rip roaring drunk as these people did on a Sunday before I had to work, Jesus Christ I would be dead. There would be no reviving my ass. I was dead for days after just trying to survive the whole ordeal. 

So there you have it. If your friend ever tries to talk you into going to a “brunch nightclub” when you’re half in the bag, run as far away as humanly possible. Give me my couch, sweats, Netflix, takeout, and a bottle of champagne, with a fucking glass to drink it out of. 

The Road To 30

d4c1fdd36301eaeb8884d28152c7085bRecently I’ve been thinking a lot about Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra. And me. I was a clueless 24-year-old when I gave birth to it, and here I am, a clueless almost 30-year-old. Now what? Where are we going? Who am I? 

And then, as I was huffing and puffing and sweating profusely while wrestling sheets onto my bed, I realized something: have I always gotten so winded whilst putting sheets on my bed? When I was done I laid on my floor exhausted, and almost sore? Wishing a random soul would run into my room and pour an ice cold bucket of water over my head. Yep. From putting damn sheets on my bed. 

Is this 30? 

My last year in my 20s has been a rocky one for sure. I was diagnosed with rosacea. I’m pretty sure I have a gluten intolerance and had to cut it out of my diet when all I want to do is make sweet sweet love to a crunchy baguette (wait … scratch that, what I meant is I want to devour it with a whole thing of Brie, ya pervs). Things ended pretty badly with a guy I really cared about for a long time, leaving me utterly heart broken. Oh yeah, and to add insult to injury, his lovely new girlfriend (whom I don’t know), started harassing me for no legitimate reason for a majority of the summer. 

It’s all been shit. But Jesus does it feel good to write about it and share it with you. 

While I’m super excited to turn 30 (no sarcasm, I truly fucking hated my 20s, and couldn’t be more pleased a new decade of life is on the horizon), I just can feel it in my bones that times are a-changin’. 

My friends are buying houses, talking more about their credit scores over dinner than dumb ass shit we used to chat about. They are saying things like, “yeah, we’ll probably start trying in the spring…” Wait. Weren’t we just talking about how we DON’T want to get pregnant slash ways to avoid it? I don’t know why, but I freak out when I hear people talking about procreating. It’s so … final. So, waiter, a bottle of wine for this gal and this gal only please. 

And me? Well, at the moment I’m contemplating whether or not to splurge and buy that suede purse from Zara that I’ve been oogling. And, quite frankly, don’t give a flying fuck about my credit score or when/if I will ever procreate so suck on that, AYE AYE AYE (no I’m totally kidding, you guys, credit scores are important, everyone, just not enough to gab about it with your gal friends … but I was serious about the procreation part)

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Odd lady out? Probably. While yes, being the black sheep sometimes makes me want to cry, after wrestling with my bed linens, I realized the beauty of it all. I could sit here and feel like the Hunchback shunned to her bell tower, single and not fitting in with my friends who are all making life their bitch as they troll Credit Karma or some shit, or I could share the splendor and disfunction of my path to 30 with you all. Hmm I’ll choose the later for $500, Alex. 

Don’t get it twisted, fashion and style and makeup and all that shit are still my life source. It will just be intermixed with interesting and funny (or sad … whatever way you want to slice it, your call) anecdotes from my single life on the brink of 30. 

Now look, this is my path, and my path only. I can already hear my friends picking up their phones and texting me, “was that me you were writing about? Blah blah blah, you hate me, why do you think I’m so lame … you bitch, blah.” 

Look, I probably will be writing about you. Get over it. You know I love you, come on, you do. Stop being silly. We’re all on different paths and unfortunately since you’re friends with me, you get involved in mine henceforth leaving me no choice then to write about your ass. I apologize in advance and know I never hate any of you (you know who you are, if you don’t then I probably hate you).

Okay, so let’s do the damn thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have to start getting ready for my bedtime of 9 p.m., place my heating pad on my stiff neck, and pray to the Gods of Amy Poehler and Tina Fey. 

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Rising Above The Mean

tumblr_nl7l03KF5d1uo8okwo1_500I think I loathe the word “bullying” due to the Real Housewives franchise. “Lisa VanderPump called me a bitch behind my back to all the other girls and now everyone hates me. Why am I being bullied :::chugs bottle of Rose, vomits into Celine purse:::?!?!” 

I thought the term “bullying” was left next to the monkey bars when we graduated from school. Never in my adult existence did I think people in their 20’s, 30’s, or 40’s would be walking around getting verbally victimized by awful people trying to make themselves feel better by pulling others down. But alas, here we are.  

But I’m not here to tell you to not “bully” others, because as grown adults, if you have to be told to not be shitty to your fellow human, well then, Google a good psychiatrist, I’m sure they can work wonders on you. 

As cliche as it is, this is one of my all-time favorite quotes that I think about regularly: “everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.” It’s not something I would ever put on a mug and drink tea out of, but it just stays with me. 

Simply because I have suffered from anxiety since I was little. When the insane worries are clawing at you from the inside out and there is nothing you can do to make it stop. When you want to just enjoy yourself, but the anxiety keeps pulling you back down. But you have to sit there, smile, and keep going … because as adults, what other options do we have? 

All people see are the smiles, jokes, and how well I’m put together. What people don’t see is when sometimes my heart constantly races and all I want to do is cry. I know those feelings all too well, therefore I can’t help but be sympathetic to others that could potentially be feeling the same way. Because I know one mean comment, or unjustifiable jab could cause me to spiral. And quite frankly, that’s just not an option for me. Because God dammit, I’m strong :::punches fist in air awkwardly::::.

It’s so easy to spread rumors, call people fat, ugly, stupid, a whore. But that person you insulted for no justifiable reason could be dealing with body image issues, or may have low self esteem. For example I sometimes slash always think I’m fat/overweight (I mean who doesn’t have those moments), so I don’t need the freakin’ peanut gallery sharing their thoughts on the topic, thanks. 

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That person you are berating with mean comments could be hanging on by a thread. You just never know. 

I know I’m coming off like a saint who is holier than thou and who has never done a bad thing in her life. Wrong. Completely wrong. I hate most people (kidding, kind of, sort of …) and I adore talking shit. Especially when I’m mad. Hi, I’m human. But when I do, I try to keep it to myself because I don’t want to be the reason that person has a shitty day, cries themselves to sleep, or does something unimaginable to themselves. 

Struggles don’t end when you become an adult, and apparently either does being ruthlessly mean for no reason. I’m sure I’ll be dealing with mean girls even when I’m in an old folks home doing synchronized swimming (#lifegoals)

The only way to respond is through kindness. Throw that anger and sadness you have from the mean person into something positive, like sending a compliment to your fellow lady. I adore supporting other women. I really do. And in a selfish way, giving compliments to others makes me feel amazing. So I encourage all of you to compliment someone. Do it. It’s like Xanax in word form, trust. 

So to all five of you out there reading this who have been personally victimized by some woman/man with nothing better to do with his/her time then to bring you down, I feel you. I’ve been there. But keep your head up. We’re adults. Acts that are traditionally committed in a playground setting have no room in my life, nor in yours. Remember that.

And next time you want to take an unjustifiable or justifiable jab at someone for the hell of it, say it with me now, “everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” 

Be kind, for the love of fuck. 

Ps. I dedicate this post to Amy Poehler and Tina Fey because they are my idols and are everything I want to be as a woman.

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Own Your Shit

200_sIf you’re as worried as I am that it is the end of times, don’t worry, we can lay in the fetal position and hold each other whilst eating soft pretzels and chugging wine. 

I feel like every single morning my alarm goes off, I learn something new and awful that happened while I was sleeping. From horrifying terror attacks, to people just being stupidly mean to one another, to the more meaningless and ridiculous acts of Kim Kardashian posting footage of Taylor Swift approving “I made that bitch famous.” It’s always something. 

Everything just feels … off right now, right? All we can do is try to make this world a somewhat decent place to coexist. And I believe that starts with a little thing known as owning your shit. Yeah, I said it. I don’t care if you’ve sold 14 bazillion records, or are Sally Sunshine from Mississippi who eats rainbows and sparkles for dinner. Say it with me now … own your shit. 

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Oh you pretended like you were so offended by being called a “bitch” in a song, and then footage came out showing you originally approved it? Own it. A simple statement like, “yeah I’m an ass, I approved it. But to be honest, when it came out I changed my mind because you know what? It isn’t okay to be called a bitch. Sorry, guys,” would have stopped a lot of useless, dumbass drama. Here’s a little life secret I’ll share between me and you … ready? It’s totally okay to laugh at yourself. I do it daily. Shh don’t tell anyone. 

So you ate your co-workers sandwich and then denied it? Stop being a moron. “I ate your sandwich, coworker, because I was starving and thought it was mine even though I knew deep down it wasn’t. I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow to make it up to you.” Now people won’t stand around the water cooler talking about what a psychopath you are.

My favorite and yours, you plagiarized a speech from the first lady and then denied it. There is no getting around plagiarism kids, because you can’t deny words. Look, see below? Can’t deny that shit. But alas … the sky is green, not blue in the wonderful world of the Trumps. 

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Photo credit: CNN.com

Plagiarism scares the shit out of me. Since I was old enough to write a paper I was told if I stole material from another human, I would basically become the scum of the Earth with no future, and it would follow me around for the rest of my life (thanks, public school). 

Here’s what you do: Fire your entire team. Like every single person who touched the speech, looked at the speech, wrote the speech, breathed near the speech, was in the same room as the speech. Fuck it, fire the people who made the paper the speech was written on. Fire. Them. They are all idiots. 

THEN … apologize. Publicly. Especially to Michelle Obama, because you stole from her. Jewelry, words, souls, stealing is stealing. Suck it up, say you made a huge ridiculous mistake, and deal with the consequences. People will have more respect for you. 

I realize owning your shit seems easier than it looks. The embarrassment, remorse, and being put in the spotlight as the biggest ass to ever walk this Earth isn’t fun, I get it. But by saying you screwed up and apologizing, you can then shut the story down and start taking control of it. 

Look, I’m not perfect. I’m far from it, in fact. Like REALLY far from it. But when I mess up in my professional life, I own up to it. Because I’ve learned that all mistakes I’ve made have just forced me to become better at what I do. Instead of pointing fingers and throwing other innocent people under the bus, embrace that huge, ugly mistake, learn a lesson from it, and move on with your life. Same goes with my personal life. 

The world is a strange place right now, that’s an undeniable fact. So let’s stop acting like 5-year-olds, pulling one another’s hair and then screaming “SHE DID IT” on the playground. We’re adults, for the love of God. And not to sound like a rabid real housewife who is about to flip the God damn kitchen table but, OWN YOUR SHIT!

Republicans, democrats, Taylor Swift … I’m looking at all of you specifically.

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10 Things To Not Give A Shit About

Screen Shot 2016-03-31 at 12.16.24 PMI’ve come to realize I spend a lot of time worrying, thinking, and analyzing things that really don’t matter. Like ridiculous amounts of time. For example last night on my way home, I couldn’t decide if I should go to Rite Aid and THEN take an Uber home, or go to Rite Aid and hopefully still have time to make my second train. Or … do I even need to go to Rite Aid at all (I needed tampons … yes, self, you needed to go to Rite Aid). 

It’s not healthy. And I’m about to turn 30. Bitch … I cannot afford stress lines, wrinkles, and grey hair (well, more than I already have). 

So after reading a super inspiring article from a writer at the Huffington Post who wrote a list of stuff she will no longer give a shit about in 2016 … I decided to do the same.

Feel free to get inspired, roll your eyes, or even add to it. I don’t care. But just like my closet, my brain needs a good spring cleaning.

So behold, the things I’m going to try my hardest to not give a shit about:

1. Caring about how many times I wear an outfit in a 2-week span (yep, because my coworkers totally keep a journal of my daily outfits)

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2. Worrying about not having plans over the weekend (because there is NOTHING wrong with going to bed at 9pm on a Friday evening once in a blue moon, even though the paparazzi outside my house will absolutely write about it and make me look like SUCH a loser)

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3. Trying to make sense of people who are selfish, think they are the only ones who have stress in their lives, and make you work on their schedule (unfortunately you can’t fix shitty humans just like you can’t fix stupid ones … byeeeee)

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4. Being concerned that I left my hair straightener on (you didn’t … and it’s 2016, you have a hair straightener that automatically shuts off after a while … simmer)

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5. Focusing on the fact that my face is broken out when I’m having a conversation with someone and all I can think while their talking is, “you’re staring at my pimple, you’re staring at my pimple.” (Hi … I’m human, nice to meet you)

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6. Stressing that my life isn’t progressing like the people I follow on social media who are getting engaged, celebrating promotions, or attending awesome events (because, you know, everyone loves posting when their dog dies, how much they hate their job, or that they are having problems with their significant other)

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7. Pondering if I should have a glass of wine after work even though it’s a Tuesday, and I’m trying to lose weight, but I REALLY want one… (Jesus Christ, HAVE THE GLASS OF WINE … I refuse to say “yolo” but for the love …)

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8. Gaining wrinkles over the fact that I could potentially be single for the rest of my existence (or I could stay with/decide to date a complete and utter scumbag just for the sake of NOT being single … hmm decisions…)

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9. Being paranoid that people think I’m a bitch. Guess what? Sometimes I am. And sometimes so are you. It happens. But overall, I like to think I’m a decent person with morals and manners (don’t let the all black wardrobe fool you). But sometimes, the bitch pants get thrown the fuck on. (Hi, again, I’m human, nice to meet you) 

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10. Worrying about the plans I make and situations I have no control over. Should I go? Shouldn’t I? Why can’t it be like this? Would it be bad to cancel? Wonder if it’s super awkward? Can’t I just go to Rite Aid and buy tampons later? (SHUSH, self … JUST GO … #mantra)

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An Open Letter About Slut Shaming

23-1422001202-kim-kardashian-selfish-book-coverI personally loathe the word “slut.” It should only be used when your cat is like laying on its back spread eagle like an idiot. Then you can be all, “look at that slut.” There ya go. But when it comes to women and the choices they make in life, meh … let’s refrain, shall we? 

So I get why Kim Kardashian got so infuriated when people started calling her out on social media about her nude selfie. She woke up one morning with “nothing to wear” and wanted to show the world her bod. Okay. That was her decision. Who am I to comment?

But Kim Kardashian is a brand. Like M&M or Budweiser. Her strategy is sex. She is dripping with it from her curve hugging outfits to her racy photoshoots. Sex to her is what the Clydesdales are to Budweiser and what “melt in your mouth, not in your hard” is to M&Ms. So we can’t shame her for having a consistent brand message, now can we? 

For example my brand message on Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra is NOT sex … in fact it is the total opposite. I talk about sweating through my bra for fucks sake (which PS totally happened to me today). So if I saw Kim’s nude selfie and said to myself, “hey, weird, I have nothing to wear EITHER.” Dropped trou, and posted a nude selfie, it would not only be offensive, but weird and awful, and I think I would make the entire Instagram platform melt. 

Everyone has a brand, whether they like to believe so or not. You’re promoting yourself to get into a good school, or just get your first part-time job or gain respect from people you admire. You’re making yourself look good so you can get that dream job or that promotion you’ve been after. Or just trying to reach goals you’ve set for yourself.

And the interwebs can fuck all of that up in a mili-second. Because most of us who aren’t Kim Kardashian don’t have a multi-bazillion dollar brand that is dripping in sex. And by most of us I mean probably none of you reading this. Hence why sending nude pics or posting nude selfies just isn’t cool. They will, I promise, come back to bite you in your bare ass.

Can you imagine sitting in front of Anna Wintour for a coveted editor position at Vogue and have her turn her iPhone around to you with a photo of you posing topless covering up your nips asking, “and what do you have to say about this?” MOR-TIF-YING. And so not worth it. You have a hot bod? Cool … go oogle yourself in the mirror. 

While I applaud Kim for having a consistent brand message and being proud of who she is and her sexuality (really I am), I think we all need to step back and reflect on what OUR brand message is. For me it’s straight snark and sarcasm. In no way, shape, or form will you EVER see any of my giggly bits on any social media channel, I can promise you that. But if you’re in high school, your brand is getting into a good school and getting your shit together. And there ain’t no room for nude selfies in that equation, my friends.

So unless Annie Leibovitz asked you to do a nude shoot for an art exhibit or Vanity Fair, I would say just don’t do it. Unless you are Kim Kardashian. Which you aren’t. So there is no need to emulate that shit. Because if you do, you need to be prepared for the repercussions. And unless you can handle being ruthlessly made fun of and called derogatory names, while having potentially great opportunities disappear then I say think before you post. HARD. 

And always remember, you are NOT Kim Kardashian. 

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